


The arrow goes straight through my heart

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-01
Updated: 2007-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Dean Winchester is that he's like an addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The arrow goes straight through my heart

**Author's Note:**

> _you make me hard when i'm all soft inside_  
>  _i see the truth when i'm all stupid-eyed_  
>  _the arrow goes straight through my heart_  
>  _without you everything just falls apart_  
>  {nine inch nails // the perfect drug}  
> 

The thing about Dean Winchester is that he's like an addiction. He's not like heroin or booze or even caffeine--no, he's like the gritty, oily nothingness that gets in the swirls of your fingerprints when you wipe an eyelash off your face that you can't stop trying to rub off. Sam spends his entire freshman year--that long year between Dean and Jess--constantly tasting Dean's dried saliva on his lips, smelling Dean's harsh sweat on his clothes, waking up to the feel of Dean's rough fingers in his hair. He tries to wash his brother away, scrubs at his hands until they're raw, takes hour-long showers, and other things, smaller things (he bites his fingernails when he's horny, he taps his pencil erasers on his knuckles in the same slow rhythm as he breathes) that cause his roommate to call the counseling center to make sure he doesn't have OCD or something. He doesn't, but he can't convince the therapist of that (it's not like he can tell her that he just knows there's still dried bits of Dean's skin under his fingernails from that goodbye blowjob), so he gets a slip that tells him to come back every week. He throws it away as soon as he gets home.

*

_Her name was Michelle, she was a senior, and she was absolutely the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. It took him two weeks to build up the courage to ask her out, and he prayed every night that Dad wouldn't shake him awake at three in the morning and tell him to get in the car._

_He was awkward when he fucked her in the woods behind school on Valentine's Day (how terribly, horribly romantic, he thinks years later), all long limbs and little moaning noises and suppressed nervous laughter. And then she took his earlobe between her teeth and something flipped a switch and he swore he could feel testosterone coursing through his veins. She made a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh that made his toes twitch and he pushed into her again and he almost couldn't believe that he'd almost been traumatized that morning by asking her out. He partially blamed Dean, what with all his stupid advice that didn't work and all his stupid charismatic looks and all his stupid, stupid muscles that drove girls crazy and, oh fuck, here he was, staring off into space and thinking about his brother's muscles while he was fucking a girl._

_Sam, she said at precisely the right moment, I'm down here._

*

The first time he fucks Jess, he thinks about Dean. He doesn't mean to, he just does. He fucks her hard and deep and she curls her legs around his waist and digs her fingernails into his shoulders and throws her head back and moans, and she is tight and young and beautiful and Sam comes almost too quickly until he hears Dean's voice in his ear, _yeah, that's it, nice and slow, a little to the left sammy, yeah, yeah, goddamn, yeah_ and so he bites his tongue and thrusts again.

When it's over, he wraps his arms lazily around her, cramped onto her dorm-room bed, and pecks at her neck with his lips, running his tongue over a tiny mole when he comes to it. She squirms and tells him to stop, she's tired, she wants to sleep. So he buries his nose in her hair (she smells like apples and Chanel-laced sweat) and wakes up the next morning when she kisses him goodbye, she's going to class. He curls up in her sheets, soaks himself in her scent. He's used to spending mornings alone.

*

_Three weeks after he'd left Michelle behind, they were swimming in a slightly questionable motel pool. Dad was away, hunting something, and Dean was supposed to make sure Sammy did his homework. Instead, Dean was dunking him underwater at every opportunity, so when they got into the shallow end, he wrapped one of his legs around one of Dean's and twisted his older brother's arm behind his back and pushed his face into the water for a good twenty seconds. When he let up, Dean gasped, Uncle, and Sam let him go with a wet slap on the back and dove towards the deep end. He was hanging on the edge of the pool with one hand, running the other through his stringy-wet hair, kicking his legs to stay afloat, when Dean caught up to him, pressed against his back so Sam could feel his erection through thin layers of polyester. He leaned in close to Sammy's ear, arms resting folded across his shoulders, just bobbing in the water for a minute, his breath hot and sharp on Sam's jawbone. Sam finally turned to him and said, Maybe we should get to bed, Dean._

_No, Dean said. You need to be punished for that. And then he pressed his open mouth against Sam's cheek._

_And yes, it was Sam that ran his tongue along Dean's bottom lip, tasting salt and chlorine, and yes, it was Sam that nearly cracked his skull when his arm slipped off the concrete and his lips slipped off of Dean's because he was distracted, and yes, it was Sam that got his brother off in that pool, but he will always maintain that Dean kissed him first._

*

Dean fucks him twenty two days, nine hours and seven minutes after the fire at Stanford. They stop in a town that pops up like a rabbit out of a hole and get a room at the only motel for ten miles. It's dark and damp and it smells like piss, but it's better than spending the night in the car again, so they haul themselves in and as soon as Sam gets through the door, Dean slams him against it to shut out the warm, Indian summer night air, and kisses him, all hard and heavy and wet. Sam kisses him back, grabs at the collar of his leather jacket, pushes him backwards until they reach the bed, when Dean turns them around and shoves Sammy down.

"God," Dean says to the heat and the damp in the air, a thin sheen of perspiration starting to form on his upper lip, "why didn't we do this earlier." It's not a question.

Somewhere between Dean's teeth closing around his bottom lip and Dean's knee shoved between his legs and Dean's hands on his belly under his shirt, Sam starts to feel high. But not high like that one time he took a hit of something rolled in cigarette paper, no. His head feels crystal-clear and it's almost like nothing else in the world exists but him and Dean and this rock-hard mattress beneath them. He holds Dean's face in his hands and presses his thumbs against Dean's cheekbones and pulls away to whisper, "I missed you." Dean stops moving for a second, watches Sam's eyes as if they would tell the future, and indeed, time seems to stand still. And then Dean's fingers are gliding along under the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and Sam raises his hips, if only out of habit.


End file.
